


Ain't Nothing Gonna Break My Stride

by HelenaWrites



Series: Secret Journals of a Demonic Nanny [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Family Fluff, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Godparents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Slice of Life, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, until he isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22379926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaWrites/pseuds/HelenaWrites
Summary: Baby Warlock won't stop crying. To say the sound is driving Crowley insane is an understatement.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Series: Secret Journals of a Demonic Nanny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617406
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66





	Ain't Nothing Gonna Break My Stride

**Author's Note:**

> I would have never guessed that my first Good Omens fanfiction would be about Crowley babysitting the fake-Antichrist but here we are. There's really not enough content about Nanny!Crowley being cute and silly with Warlock and that needs to change! This might get a continuation, if the story is well received, so pls spare a moment to like or comment, if you can :)

During his first few days working in the Dowling Mansion, Crowley had some trouble finding his feet. As it turns out, binge watching the TV adaptations of Mary Poppins and leafing through a few pages of the book did not, in fact, prepare him to become a proper English nanny. 

Taking care of a human child (and a very fuzzy one at that) was nowhere near as easy as Crowley had first anticipated. He was a creature of Hell, and the role of nurturer and caregiver did not come naturally to him. It wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say that he felt quite out of his depth, actually. 

He should have listened more closely to Aziraphale’s warnings on that matter, but Crowley was not a very good listener in the first place, and the urge to prove the fastidious angel wrong had proved to be too tempting. In retrospective, though, he realized that the role of gardener fit him much better, and he would have felt inclined to ask for an exchange if that hadn’t meant essentially admitting defeat. Crowley was a proud demon. 

The first day it all had seemed simple enough. Master Warlock had been fast asleep in his crib, wearing a funny looking hat with a carrots pattern that Crowley found quite unfitting for the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. Then again, Warlock as a whole seemed a bit unfitting for that title at the moment, with his rosy cheeks and drooling chin and his little footsie-wootsies. For the moment, Crowley decided to let it slide. 

It was then, as he reached out with a wet wipe to clean the offending strings of saliva off the Antichrist’s sleepy face, that the crying first began. It was an unexpected and ear piercing sound. Crowley panicked almost immediately. 

“Nonono, hey, don’t cry.” He pleaded, placing a long index finger on top of Warlock’s lips. It didn’t seem to help a lot. If anything, the crying seemed to get louder. “Come on, just wanted to clean you up a bit, that’s all. No need to cry over that!” 

Crowley promptly picked up the boy and thought of all those silly things he had seen mothers do on TV when the crocodile tears started. He tried feeding him, changing his diaper and even making him burp. He checked for a fever. He took off the silly little hat and changed his clothes for lighter ones, and then warmer ones when that didn’t seem to work. Warlock decidedly ignored his efforts, though. 

When two hours passed and the crying didn’t stop, Crowley began to worry.

“For Hell’s sake, what’s the matter with ya?” He said through gritted teeth, rubbing circles on Warlock’s back. “Stop crying, _please._ I beg you, stop crying!”

Crowley tried bouncing him on his lap, pulling faces at him and singing nursery rhymes (which didn’t seem to do good to any of them). The baby was immune to it all. Nothing seemed to reach him, and Crowley couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing something wrong. 

Usually, doing things wrong filled him with immense satisfaction, especially when a temptation was involved. He was a demon, after all. This felt nothing like it, though. It was alarming and upsetting, like that time he had knocked down an old Chinese relic off the desk of Aziraphale’s study. Just like then, miracles or not, it seemed quite impossible for Crowley to properly put things back together. 

Warlock did stop crying momentarily around three of the afternoon, and promptly fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep. Crowley felt like crying himself then, if out of frustration or relief, he couldn’t tell. He took a nap on the rocking chair besides the crib, and woke up twenty minutes later to yet another session of irrational wailing. 

Crowley did cry then. Only a little bit. 

What he tried next was making shadows with his hands. Silly little stories to entertain the kid. Little Riding Hood getting eaten by a wolf, a dragon burning down some peasant village, the Kraken rising up from a boiling sea - nothing overly complicated. His efforts were not much appreciated, but he didn’t let that break his spirit. He read to him a few verses from the Book of Revelation (to disastrous results), gave him an extensive tour of the Mansion’s eerie basement and sang to him Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, just to try his luck. 

Warlock was a worthy opponent, though, and a quite talented screamer. His face would turn red from all the crying, and he’d arch his back and flail his little arms at Crowley. If he had been but a few years older it might have had been a reason for concern, to have the Spawn of Satan looking so very vexed by his presence. As it was, Crowley didn’t think he would be able to cause him harm. Hopefully. 

“Come on, kid. I’ll give you ten bucks if you stop crying.” He said, waving his wallet on the baby’s face. Warlock looked quite unimpressed. “Had to give it a try.”

Crowley took the remote and turned on the television. Warlock squirmed unhappily on his lap, wailing like a sack of angry potatoes. The TV Screen flickered to life, and Crowley scrunched his nose as he recognized a rerun of The Valleys. “Nah, we’re tryna fix you here, not make you worse.” He changed the channel and smiled as an episode of the Golden Girls began to roll.

It was just his first day and the poor demon already felt exhausted. The whole changing diapers and feeding and handling temper tantrums was getting to him faster than he thought it would. As he bounced the crying baby on his lap, Crowley’s eyes began to grow tired. He tried to focus on the show, but soon he was tilting his head back and forth, struggling to stay awake. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late with Aziraphale yesterday. 

He leaned back against the couch, moving Warlock so that the kid was laying on top of his chest, the head propped against his shoulder. It was a good episode. The kind he’d seen some many times he had memorized the dialogues, and yet still found amusing. Warlock would probably not understand anything, though. Briefly, Crowley wondered if he should look for something more age appropriate, but quickly decided against it when he realized how far away the remote was. 

He closed his eyes, and told himself he would just rest for a few minutes. It was only then that he realized how quiet it was. He glanced down at the boy. His eyes were closed and he looked sleepy and content. The crying had stopped. Crowley muted the television and stared at his wrist watch. Five hours had passed since the whole ordeal began. 

“Thats'all ya needed?” He asked, feeling a bit numb. “Wanted me to hold you for a bit?” 

Warlock didn’t respond, but it’s not like he expected him to.

* * *

“Oh, it is quite common, my dear.” Aziraphale said over dinner that night, happily biting into his meal. Crowley glared at him from the other side of the table. For a demonic creature that didn’t need neither food nor sleep, he looked inexplicably tired. 

“What do you mean common? Didn’t you just hear me say that he cried for _five hours straight_? That isn’t bloody normal.”

“He’s but a few weeks old. Babies cry a lot during that time, especially around strangers.” Aziraphale said meaningfully. Crowley did not receive these news very gracefully. His glare was quickly turning into a quite panicky look. Aziraphale could tell, even through the sunglasses.

“Then, what am I supposed to do? Is he going to be like this every day?”

“During the first weeks, perhaps.” Aziraphale hesitated it. He considered Crowley for a moment. He usually did this whenever he wanted to make a suggestion, but wasn’t sure how it would be received. Demons could get offended over the strangest things, he’d come to find out. “You could try to befriend him. Play games with him, sing to him. If he is in anyway like other human children, he should get used to your presence quick enough.” 

“Ngk, how do you even befriend a baby? S’not like he got a personality or anything. He just cries and eats and soils diapers.” Crowley said, mournfully picking at his meal. Aziraphale scrunched his nose, unimpressed.

“Oh, I think that is up to you to find out, dear boy. You are the qualified nanny here, after all.” He said, offering an infuriating little smile. Crowley’s nostrils flared, and he tried to hide it by taking a sip from his coffee. So much for asking a friend for advice.

The next day Crowley found out that Aziraphale’s theory had some merit. As soon as Warlock set eyes on him the waterfalls began to pour all over again. He bared his teeth, trying and failing to hide his annoyance. This time he had come with a plan, though, and he was not about to admit defeat to a newborn baby, even if he was the Antichrist. So Crowley popped his neck, pulled up his skirt and approached the crib with a decisive step. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked the reading! If ya wanna rant about Good Omens or the Ineffable Husbands you can follow me on tumblr as @helenakey :)


End file.
